Cooking With Jim!
by charname
Summary: Jim really does want Sherlock to back off. He shares a meal with Sherlock in order to make himself perfectly clear.


****Hello! I wrote this for the anonymous prompting meme on Livejournal and decided to post it here too. I hope you enjoy this if you choose to read it, but before you do, please pay attention to the warnings.

**WARNINGS**:This fic contains **forced cannibalism**, some **descriptions of mutilations**, & the **mutilation of a main character**.

* * *

**Cooking With Jim!**

Consciousness hits him like a breaking wave. Lucidity takes far too long to catch up.

His eyes open first. Before he can process the images on his retinas he concludes that he's bound to a chair, each ankle and wrist tied separately.

As he recovers the ability to focus visually, he's able to determine that while the bindings aren't amateur, he should be able to free himself before being restrained becomes problematic.

He flexes his wrists and inhales as the world shifts closer into focus. The smell is rather pleasant. Culinary. This is logical. He is in a food preparation area. The metallic rectangle is a fridge, the white surface is worktop. There is an oven, and a man standing in front of a dishwasher. This is a kitchenette, in a living space. Layout suggests a flat, single occupant.

Sherlock blinks, and perception clicks back into place. The man is easily identifiable, Jim Moriarty. He flexes his wrists again and allows his eyes to wander, noting the finer details of the area.

Moriarty grins at him, and brings his hands outward in a sweeping gesture. Displaced air draws Sherlock's attention to the absence of his coat. His phone is in his coat pocket, and if he were going to abduct himself he might take the coat, and the phone, and put them on some other man sent off in a cab for the police to track to who knows where. He expects Moriarty has done something similar.

"I'm honored you've decided to join us!" Moriarty finishes the sentence, and his gesture, with aplomb.

"I was about to start worrying," Moriarty steps forward, drawing a finger across the top of the kitchenette's island worktop as he approaches Sherlock, "It was only carotid asphyxiation," he brings both hands forward to card through the curls at Sherlock's temples, "I didn't want there to be any possibility of chemical interference in tonight's events," the criminal leans forward until his lips are almost touching Sherlock's hairline, "This is going to be all you. Completely sober, no lingering chemical tastes. No dulled senses." Moriarty leans back, and licks his lips, "This is going to be one of those character building experiences," he twirls back to the kitchenette, "One of those nights you remember for the rest of your life," he turns back to stare Sherlock dead in the eyes, "From now on," he says while Sherlock is still too distracted cataloguing the situation to consciously note the suggestion, "Everything you taste will be compared to this."

Sherlock only mostly listens to what Moriarty is saying. The words are stored and skimmed for useful information, but they are primarily vague dramatic implications of soon-to-be-revealed threats; they do not deserve his full attention.

Sherlock is confused, and it is this confusion to which he attributes the dampening of his palms and quickening of his pulse. Even Moriarty's attire, while suiting the setting, does not suit the situation as Sherlock sees it, which must mean that he sees it wrong.

Over his – obviously carefully selected, obviously designer – outfit he is wearing an apron. It does not suit him in the least. It's pink and white plaid. Too small for him. An assortment of stains indicate long-term use. Stain placement relative to counter and stovetop height indicates that Moriarty is not the regular wearer. There is a small calico cat embroidered in the lower left corner. The apron was mass produced, inexpensive. It was bought on a whim by a woman for herself.

This leads to the conclusion that the apron is a feature of the kitchen. The flat belongs to a single woman.

Moriarty has either planned to wear the apron when he decided to conduct his business here, or he has thrown it on spontaneously.

Sherlock would not particularly care about the motivation for wearing the apron, but it is accompanied by what appears to be a brand new chef's hat. It fits perfectly, which must indicate that it was bought for this purpose. Moreover, an old, ill-fitting apron over Westwood accompanied by a brand new hat – and so why not a brand new apron? It must mean something, if only that Moriarty has raised playing with his mental processes to an art form, and if that is all it means then how much time is he wasting, will he continue to waste, by looking for a deeper meaning?

Moriarty is staring at Sherlock with a small smile, "How's our detective doing? Figured it out yet?"

He hasn't but...

"It really doesn't suit you," he keeps his eyes firmly on the apron.

Moriarty pouts, "Yes, I know. But," he bounces on the balls of his feet, "I do like trophies."

"I hope you don't intend to keep John as one," Sherlock infuses as much warning into his tone as possible while internally delighting that all his conclusions have been correct. Of course John's abductor had been Moriarty. Of course the series of clues – and they had been brilliant and beautiful – had led him face to face with Moriarty again. Of course, the next step would be to taunt him with some threat to John's well-being (and really, that sort of thing would have to stop, but it was something close to worth it for the resulting adrenaline rush and flood of victorious endorphins when they'd worked their way back to safety). Of course Moriarty wasn't going to kill Sherlock, or even John, because the game was still too new and bright. After that first confrontation at the pool, Moriarty had demonstrated more of a desire to get into his head than to break him. A broken opponent would mean a single-player game, and the fun in those never lasts.

Moriarty laughs. It's not the laugh of a madman.

"No, no, no," Moriarty crosses his arms and leans his hip against the worktop, "He's hardly a fitting trophy. Not for me," he smiles with half of his mouth, "not anymore." The smile is full now, and the amusement reaches his eyes.

"This is fun, you know. I like you, genuinely, I do. But, as interesting as you have made things, you keep interfering with my work. You are costing me so much. You only find out about a small fraction," he drags the a in the word out as he brings his thumb and forefinger close together, "of what I do. Just the mistakes big enough to catch police attention. But," Moriarty sighs theatrically, "you keep finding out about them. Finding everything out. People are starting to talk."

Moriarty knits his fingers together, then gestures toward Sherlock with his clasped hands, "I have been so nice about this. I asked you to stop. I didn't even kill anyone you liked. I made it fun for you," he presses his hands over his heart, "I keep sending you little things. Why can't you just be content? Why do you have to keep trying to get to me?"

They're not honest questions; Sherlock doesn't even deign to consider answering them. He is more concerned with the short hair he's noticed by the base of the worktop. The rest of the room is spotless. Carelessness or an intentionally left clue? He's seen it before, on a shoe, at the morgue, worn by Molly Hooper. He was five minutes from the morgue when he'd been attacked. Carotid asphyxiation means he can't be much farther than that. This is Molly Hooper's flat, convenient for her work. Moriarty would know location and layout, convenient for this abduction. John could be here, restrained. It is highly likely that he is. Half an hour ago Molly was at the morgue. Would she know of this? Unlikely. Hope is a useless emotion, but he does devote a moment of consideration to the possibility that Molly will be kept busy until what's happening here is over.

"You have picked the worst time to start ignoring me," Moriarty rolls his eyes.

There is a ding from the oven.

"Oh," he jumps, "This was done some time ago. I've been keeping it warm for you." He frowns, "You've been taking longer than I expected. Do you think," he tilts his head, "it's because you didn't have your little pet trotting after you? Has the worry put you off?"

"I suppose asking where you've hidden him wouldn't help. Tell me though, how many men did it take to subdue him?"

Moriarty laughs at that, and turns to the oven, "Oh, more than I thought it would. He fought harder than last time. I wasn't there, of course, but from what I've heard I'm quite impressed. Although, if there is a next time, it'll be easier then." He pauses with his hands on the oven's handle, "And, if you were to ask nicely, I'd be pleased to inform you that there's barely even a door between you and your dear doctor."

Sherlock freezes for a moment, then takes a deep breath.

"Ooh, I wouldn't recommend calling out to him," Moriarty says before Sherlock's lungs are full, "Too much excitement might turn out very badly for the poor thing. Besides which, I'm not sure he can hear you, and if anyone in the neighbouring flats could," the man giggles, "I don't think you'd be pleased with the consequences."

He opens the oven door and the culinary scent hits Sherlock again with full force. It is familiar, but on two separate levels.

"I made this for you. I hate cooking for myself but I just love watching other people eat. You know how that is, don't you darling?"

Moriarty slips on a pair of oven mitts that match the apron and leans down to remove a pot, which he places on a cooling rack. He removes the gloves, closes the oven, and blows on his fingers.

"Have you figured it out yet?"

Sherlock hasn't, not completely. He strains against his bonds. Moriarty has given him enough evidence for an unbearable number of conclusions, but not enough for any one of them to be worth ascribing to. The item – a pot pie, crust slightly overdone – that it had been kept heated was true – is unlikely to contain Molly's cat, very likely to contain some sort of poison. Unlikely to contain anything fatal. Reasonably likely to contain a substance with long-lasting, debilitating effects. This is another warning, not an assassination attempt.

"I've never responded well to being force-fed."

"People generally don't," Moriarty looks at him expectantly, then frowns, "Disappointing. I've gone through all this trouble, and now I'm not even sure you're worth it. Maybe," he turns to the fridge, "the vol-au-vent will help you understand."

Sherlock can feel the rush of cool air as Moriarty opens the door. He takes out a small white plate on which rests a puff-pastry, lid slightly askew.

"You've fallen into the trap," Moriarty says, hand partially obscuring the pastry as he shuts the fridge and turns back to Sherlock, "of thinking that because I didn't hurt you before, I won't hurt you now."

As he approaches, Sherlock can see that whatever's forcing the lid askew is round.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, Sherlock," Moriarty singsongs as he stands in front of him and flicks the lid off.

Sherlock gets it.

There's a part of him, slight and primal, that resists the knowledge, but he's figured it out.

Sherlock stares at the pastry.

The pastry stares back.

He wants to entertain the notion that it's not real. It is obviously what it is, but it could be anyone's.

He's forced to discard the idea almost as soon as it enters his mind. Exposure to heat has changed it, but not completely. The pattern of pigmentation is familiar, the lines of the veins in the white. He would know it anywhere.

"You know, if you cook them too much," Moriarty says conversationally, "they explode."

At Sherlock's lack of a response he adds, "I guess that's why there are two of them."

"I'm going to kill you," Sherlock means it more than he's meant anything, "I'm going to make you suffer."

"Very composed. I knew there was a reason I liked you." Moriarty sets the vol-au-vent down on the worktop, turned so that it continues to stare at Sherlock, "But you won't. This is the second warning. You won't get a third." He leans over and pinches Sherlock's cheek, "It's because I like you so much," he smiles tightly, pulling away before Sherlock's attempt to twist and bite him can meet any success, "but you've made me suffer enough. That's over now."

Sherlock wants to fly into a rage. He wants to break free from sheer fury then break Moriarty completely. He wants to see John. He wants to wake up.

He needs to get through this. He needs to get to John, to help him. He needs to slip his bonds.

Moriarty turns his back on Sherlock, "I was going to make you eat that first, but I think it will be far better as a dessert."

The chair is incredibly sturdy, the bonds better than he thought.

"It's a nice little thing to look forward to," the creak of the hinges on the cupboard door as he takes out a plate almost cover the sound of Sherlock's chair creaking as he tries to free himself.

Moriarty places the plate beside the cooling rack with a soft clink, "Remember, if the neighbours hear anything–"

"I don't care about the neighbours!" The words are physically painful as they pass through his throat.

"He'll find himself in even more pain," Moriarty snarls as well as Sherlock, "so you might do what I say if you want him to live."

"I haven't taken anything vital," Moriarty says calmly, rifling through Molly's cutlery, "Yet. It's not liver," he finds what he's looking for, presses the drawer closed with his hip, and throws a smile back at Sherlock, "it's not even kidney."

His movements as he scoops the pie out of the pot and on to the plate are quick and precise.

"It turned out nicely," he smiles, balancing a fork beside the pie and bringing it over to Sherlock, "It's a good thing too. If it hadn't, I'd have had to start all over again."

"Now," he places the plate on the worktop, "You are going to eat this meal that I've cooked for you with such care, and if you're as smart as you think you are, you are going to stop being a bother."

He holds one hand out, palm warm against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, "Not burning yet, but I can feel it smouldering."

His bindings are still too tight to do anything but sit and glare.

"Are you going to let me feed you, or are you going to be difficult?"

Sherlock turns his head away, clamping his lips shut. It may be pointless in practise, but he won't simply give in. His wrists are raw against the bonds, and every second he focusses on them is one more closer to being freed.

"Fine, be that way. Your resistance only makes this more enjoyable," Moriarty sets the plate on the worktop.

"You know, everyone's had someone else in their mouth before," for a second he slips back into the persona he'd worn at the morgue. Then he grins.

"Schoolyard fights, off schoolyard fights. Clenching someone's flesh between your teeth until their screams turn into whimpers and back into better screams."

Moriarty smiles again, and Sherlock thinks it might be genuine.

"You were the biting type," he runs a finger along Sherlock's cheek, pressing hard enough to feel the teeth underneath, "still are."

He shifts his weight to his heels and slips his fingers in his pockets.

"Most people have even swallowed, haven't they? Some middle-class mother nicks her finger while making stew and, well," he wiggles his thumbs, "who'll know? Some dumb kid working at a fast food chain gets his hand too close to the grill and the next burger has a little bit of charred epidermis included free. Not sanitary places those," he leans forward, too close, "I know. Tried working in one once. Didn't last long."

Moriarty shakes his head and pulls back, "But this is different for you. I understand that. Closer to the heart you don't want. You should eat up. The longer you take, the longer he has to bleed out."

Sherlock's glare is filled with loathing. He keeps his mouth clamped.

"Well," Moriarty sighs, "that's not very devoted of you." He runs a finger over Sherlock's lips, and easily avoids another attempted bite.

Moriarty climbs on top of him and sits, as a too heavy weight, on his thighs. To Sherlock's distress, the chair is sturdy enough to support both of them.

"I don't mind," he twists to stab the fork into the pie and quickly draws it out again, scooping out a sizeable chunk of the filling.

Moriarty wraps his own lips around it without hesitation, then drops the fork back on the plate.

With viper-like speed, he reaches both hands out to cup the sides of Sherlock's face, thumbs pushed inward to force his teeth to unclamp, his mouth to open.

Moriarty is careful to hold his head. He uses his tongue to push the substance past Sherlock's lips.

"It's even better this way," he says, forcing Sherlock's jaw shut, "Now your first bite tastes like me too."

Sherlock wants to gag. He can't. His body tries anyway.

"Shh, shh, shh, shh," Moriarty shifts one hand to place a firm pressure on his throat, blocking his trachea, "chew, then swallow."

There is no choice. Lashing out would prevent no harm. It is already done. It is already in his mouth. If it is what it may be, the taboo has already been broken. Taboos mean nothing to him. What seems logical on one situation is not in another. He has no power in this, he is committing no trespass of his own volition. There is no trespass here because the potential trespass is not logical in this situation. He is rational and has considered alternatives and there is no choice.

He chews.

The meat is cut into small chunks. It is easily distinguished from the mushrooms and onions, from the spices and pastry.

It is not veal. It is not steak. It tastes nothing like chicken and it does not taste enough like pork.

"And swallow," the voice is soft, and the pressure on his throat eases.

He swallows.

"Good boy. And now you do it again." Moriarty's breath is warm on his face.

He stops resisting.

He'd take it off the fork, but Moriarty never gives him a chance to. He shows nothing but the utmost contentment with sitting in Sherlock's lap, twisting back and forth to fill his mouth then feed Sherlock like a bird. The warmth of his shifting hands becomes a constant fixture, better to focus on than the taste or the knowledge of what's happening.

"You're almost done," Moriarty whispers against his cheek, and he wonders what will happen if he can get his stomach to rebel the next time lips touch his, if he can force some of this back into Moriarty with added bile.

It doesn't work. His stomach won't stop rolling but he can't make anything rise.

It is, a more detached part of him thinks, probably for the best.

The hands press over his face and across his throat several more times.

Then the crust is empty, at least enough to satisfy Moriarty, who doesn't make him complete it. Instead, he moves back to the vol-au-vent, and turns it between his fingers.

"If you eat this," he says, "without resistance, I'll tell you how to help your tag-along and I'll leave without making sure he's dead."

Sherlock doesn't resist. His wrists are almost free, and he knows Moriarty knows that, but he also knows that he won't be free soon enough to make a difference.

The optic nerve is already severed. The rods and cones destroyed by heat. It is not as though it could be reattached.

Moriarty undulates against him before standing, plucking the eye out of the pastry, and shoving it between Sherlock's open lips.

He can feel it scrape against his teeth the moment before it bursts. The vitreous humour dribbles down his chin even as Moriarty drops the pastry and tilts Sherlock's head back to draw it down his throat.

"Swallow," Moriarty commands, and Sherlock does, because this finishes it. He is choking as the gelatinous substance makes its way down his throat, but he is done.

Moriarty smiles at him, and wipes his jaw with a corner of the apron before slipping it and the hat off, "I knew you could be well behaved."

Moriarty steps around him, "I left him in the bedroom for you. It's the second door on the left. He's a bit tied up, but that was really just for fun."

"You should have heard," Moriarty leans in, lips barely brushing Sherlock's ear, "The sounds he made when we cut him."

He straightens and steps back again, turning to the exterior door and folding the apron over his arm, "There should be a working landline on the bedside table. I hope I can trust you to let yourself out?"

Sherlock's response is to spit, with no chance of it reaching Moriarty.

"Impolite darling. Not appropriate behaviour for a second date."

He approaches again, ruffling a hand through Sherlock's hair from behind, "I think this went wonderfully," he moves back to the door, "but let's not see each other again."

Sherlock can hear the door shut behind him. Even with his full attention and prior work, it still takes far, far too long to free himself. His ankles, once his wrists are released, take less than twenty seconds.

He stumbles through the interior exit of the kitchen, vision swimming again, heartbeat palpable throughout his body.

The second door opens into a room smelling of Molly's perfume, of blood, of bile.

John is a mass of flesh and blood curled in on himself at the center of the bed.

John is not conscious, but he is breathing. When Sherlock falls to his side, he has a pulse.

His face is mutilated, an ear so cut up as to be as good as missing, and his limp will no longer be psychosomatic. But he will live. There is a lot of blood, but not so much that it cannot be replaced.

The landline works, even after he knocks the phone off the table. His fingers are able to find 999 while his other hand applies pressure that only seems to increase the mess of blood.

He doesn't think of what he says to the operator; his words are enough to alert her to the need for help, to where he is if not the exact address. He ignores her attempts to calm him, only having the presence of mind to press speaker before dropping the phone to the carpet, focussing instead on the much more important task of further assessing John's state.

His bones are broken, as Sherlock reports aloud because the EMTs will need to be prepared. He doesn't really listen to the operator's response. Bones can be reset. His hands are a mess. He still has an eye, and the amount of flesh required to make a pie is really not that large when compared to the whole of a man, so he'll live, he will live, so long as the internal bleeding that he must have isn't too great.

He's alive, and help is coming. Sherlock thinks he's saved him; he knows that he pulled John into this mess to begin with. Sherlock's stomach finally, finally flips high enough that he can lean over and empty it. Even when he gives in, shoves his fingers in his mouth and scrabbles at his uvula, less comes out than went in.

He continues to hold the pressure to slow John's steady bleeding. He makes sure as best he can that his breathing is unobstructed.

The EMTs take so long to arrive that he begins to suspect they won't. That he'll sit and watch John bleed out on cheap sheets when he could be doing something more to help him. That the operator is lying when she says they're on their way; one last trick of Moriarty's.

They do arrive. Late, but not too late. Not too late judging by the spread of the stains on the bedding.

Sherlock doesn't permit himself to pass out until he can see them taking care of John, helping him in ways that Sherlock cannot.

He doesn't want to lose his lucidity, but it may be considered a mercy when the peace of unconsciousness drags him under.


End file.
